iNewsie
by Revan11
Summary: What happens when two newsies from 1899 come to find an iPhone from 2012 and what connection does it bring between the iPhone owner and the newsies.


New York City, 2012: I was in the big city on vacation, a much needed vacation. Where I am from is of no concern but what I am doing in Brooklyn is of the greatest importance. I walked alone across the Brooklyn Bridge from Manhattan; yes walked! I would only be in New York for a short time but I wanted to savor the sweet experience that the bridge's view of the bay offered me. Why was I going to Brooklyn? If you must know I had a fifteen page paper to write for my college history class and I was writing about rebellion in 19th century America. Though I was focusing on the Civil War, I had heard of a newsboy strike in 1899, which spurred me on to delve deeper into that historical event. It was loaded with problems of child labor and minimum wages. It was juicy, economical, and political and I wanted to learn more.

I had heard of a small building that had been renovated some twenty years ago, formerly known as the Brooklyn Lodging House for Newsies, it had grown old and decayed and decades after the last newsie exited its doors, the city finally chose to renovate. The museum had done well in its years of operation; though the city was full of history, the Newsie Strike of 1899 was very near and dear to many people. As I approached, the museum I could see a very old sign hanging above the doorway, it was the original sign that had hung in 1899 reading: _Brooklyn_ _Lodging_ _House_. I opened the door gently and stepped in, I felt like I had just stepped into history. Although, the building was reconstructed, all its contents were strewn about absorbing the viewer into the bygone era.

"Welcome, sir." I heard a voice call out. My attention turned to an older man walking slowly towards me. I returned a kind greeting and continued to run my eyes across the room.

"What can I do for you? Would you care for a tour?" he asked politely now only a foot or two away from me. I kindly declined his offer, "Thank you but I do not have long. I am just having a quick look around."

"I see." He said his voice slightly depressed as he turned and walked slowly back to a stool in the corner. By the look of things, it didn't seem as though the museum was doing all too well. Upon further inspection I could identify a layer of dust coated on the shelves, perhaps several months accumulated.

"Do you get a lot of business these days?" I called out. The man did not turn to look at me but simply shook his head, "Nope. Nobody cares about history anymore, about the way things used to be, nobody wants to hear stories about anything out of date and trust me, friend 1899 is long out of date. I searched long and hard for much of these artifacts, thinking people would be interested in the history behind them. For a while, people came but it has been more than six months since that bell above the door chimed. Even still for the six months before that, the only people to walk through those doors were inspectors, insurance agents, and little old ladies."

I felt terrible for the old man. It seemed as though he had put much of himself into this museum and no one cared anymore. Everyone had become so absorbed by the latest gadgets that they did not need to go anywhere to learn about things. They could just google it. I searched frantically looking for something to ask the man about, then my eye caught a yellowish, frail bundle of papers. They were authentic newspapers from the days of 1899. The first stack was _The_ _World_, a paper published by the well-known Joseph Pulitzer. I scoured its pages, finding nothing of interest, before gently laying it aside. My eyes caught sight of a very old picture printed in _The_ _Sun_, in it was a small group of maybe ten or twelve boys. I turned toward the man sitting on his stool. He was staring at me, his sad eyes delving deep into my soul.

"Are these the newsies? The boys of the Strike?" I asked very enthusiastically. He nodded his head, "Do you see the boy in the middle, that was Jack Kelly and nearest him with the checkered vest is Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins, he is my grandfather." My jaw dropped, if I had felt like I was stepping into history when I entered the museum, what now when I had just learned this man was a grandson of one the more well-known newsies from the Strike.

"That's incredible! You must get a lot of questions about him." I stated walking towards him. He again shook his head, "No, as I said people could care less these days. My own children got so wrapped into music and entertainment and my grandchildren would rather read about vampires, wizards, and science fiction garbage than hear about true stories that involve their own family members. Surprised?" I shook my head. My iPhone suddenly chimed and I retrieved it from my pocket. The old man sighed. I quickly gazed at the screen before I shut it off and placed on the counter on top of the old paper, and continued my conversation, hoping I had not offended the poor man much. Our conversation carried on, he told me all about the strike, about Jack Kelly, Pulitzer, and one Spot Conlon.

My phone, meanwhile, shut off unexpectedly. What happened next was unbelievable.

_**1899**_

"'Eya Spot, did ya sell all ya papes?" came the voice of one Racetrack Higgins. The other boy whom he addressed, sat with his legs propped up on some crates and his back resting against the wall of Tibby's diner. He laughed as he fixed his gaze on Race.

"Look at this face and figure this out for yaself!" Spot said, pointing to his face.

"So that's a no?" Race joked.

"You wish, Race. I'm irresistible." Spot said with a smirk, "Did ya have to give all yours away to another newsie to sell cuz the girls ain't buying off ya?"

"Funny joke, Conlon!" Race hissed. "Brooklyn still holding up or have all the newsies abandoned ya?"

"They're loyal to me and I ain't worried about Brooklyn, it's holding up just fine. It takes man to do this kinda thing but you wouldn't know about any of that, would ya?" Spot joked again, lifting his cane and poking Race in the ribs, toying with his friend. Race grabbed the cane and yanked Spot to his feet. Spot thanked him as the boys walked inside Tibby's. They eyed the menu as well as a few girl newsies who had meandered in to the diner. The meals were devoured quickly and soon the boys were back out on the street walking toward the Manhattan Lodging House. As they walked, they talked about Medda's show the previous night.

"Well, my favorite part was Medda's finale." Race said with a chuckle.

"You always say that, just because she pulls you up on stage with her." Spot said enviously.

"You jealous, James?" Race said sarcastically.

"Damn right, Tony!" he fired back, jabbing Race lightly in the side. Both boys began to laugh heartily. Spot put his arm around his best friend's shoulder, "Race, you're such a play – " Spot was cut off in mid-sentence as something struck his head heard. Race tried to maintain his balance as Spot almost pulled him to the ground.

"What's wrong with ya, Spot? Ya drunk already?" He looked down at Spot, who sat upright on the ground, massaging his head.

"Something just nailed me in the brains," he said, with a slight groan. Both boys looked around to search for Spot's assailant object.

"What the hell is that?" Race shouted pointing to a black rectangular object that had cracked from top to bottom. Race scurried over and picked it up; it was hollowed out inside, one end of the rectangle wall was broken open. Race studied it with much speculation as Spot came next to him.

"Know what it is." Spot asked, touching it uncertainly.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Race replied.

"Hey, what is this?" Spot asked bending to pick up a white rectangular object. It was heavier then the black object, and save for a few scuffs and a minor scratch was otherwise cosmetically okay. Spot and Race studied it. There was a logo of a bitten apple on one side of the object while the other side had a dark square over the white one. It cast a mirror reflection back at the two boys. Spot was taken aback and soon he had discovered several buttons on the rim of the object. Towards the top he found a button that activated the device, the dark square brightened and a shiny white apple appeared. It was a screen. Soon a colored picture of a young man and woman at a beach appeared in place of the apple.

"Damn! She's beautiful." Race said admiring her face.

"Damn! She's fine." Spot said admiring the rest of her.

After several moments of gawking, the boys looked over the rest of the screen. There was a clock and a date: 2:46pm, August 3.

"It's July, ain't it? " Race asked. Spot nodded. "Must be broken."

Spot pointed to an arrow, "What does that do?"

Race examined it, "It says slide to unlock; whatever the hell that means." Suddenly Spot saw a funny looking object in the corner. He pushed against it. Nothing.

"Maybe ya hafta slide ya finger for that too?" Race queried. Spot did just that and to their amazement, the phone opened up revealing the ground beneath their feet. Spot again shot back in surprise, "What the hell?!"

Race randomly pressed all over the screen and slid his fingers every which way; nothing was happening. "You broke it, Race!" Soit shouted. Suddenly the screen flipped, revealing the faces of the two boys. Again, Spot lurched backward.

"It's a mirror, Spot." Race said confidently, "But mirrors don't really look like this."

Spot approached Race and the object again, slowly. He soon caught a glimpse of his face in the square, "Whatever kind a mirror it is ain't none ever made me look this good before, Race!" Race nodded, "Likewise." Spot shot his finger at the screen, toward that funny looking object at the bottom. The object clicked. The reflection of Spot and Race froze momentarily then shot toward the bottom right corner.

"What the hell? It's possessed." Spot proclaimed as Race tapped the image revealing the image of the two. Race was in awe, Spot was suspicious. Race tapped the corner again and their reflection returned. Race tapped another strange object, suddenly revealing a red dot on the lower portion of the screen. He tapped it, a resounding ding chimed. Race studied the screen, no difference save for a timer or something at the top.

"Try waving it around, Race. Maybe that'll do something." Spot said confidently, though inside he had absolutely no idea what he was doing or saying. Race began to survey the landscape. He focused on Spot, "Smile Spot, lemme take ya picture."

"'Ey! 'Ey! Yeah take me picture! Take me picture!" The object clicked as Race pressed the corner to review the picture. Suddenly a video of what had just occurred began to play.

"It films, it's like one of them motion picture cameras!" Race exclaimed, "Only the rich people can afford these kinda things!"

Spot frowned, "I don't wanna have to give it back. It's kinda interesting."

"We don't know where it even came from? So why try to return it?" Race smiled, as did Spot.

"I'm Spot Conlon, the leader of Brooklyn. I take care of my boys and anybody that tries to mess with me and Brooklyn, well – I'll soak ya!" He said, as Race filmed him. When he finished, Race passed it to him, and spoke, "I'm Racetrack Higgins, I'm a newsie from Manhattan, Jack Kelly's territory, and if ya mess with me, I'll box ya brains out." Spot shut off the video. Both boys laughed as they began to walk again back toward the lodging house.

"Let's show Jack!" Race exclaimed. Spot protested, believing since they had found such a treasure they should keep it a secret. Eventually Race agreed with him. For the remainder of the day, the two boys messed around with the strange device which they still had no real idea where it had come from.

"Let's make a film about the Strike, Spot." Spot agreed whole heartedly, "Only if you put in a good word about me."

Race laughed, "We could both tell about it, Spot, and then whoever finds our film could know about all the great stuff we did." Spot agreed and for the next twenty minutes, the story of the Strike of 1899 unfolded into the device.

That night, Spot stayed in Manhattan with Race, both awake til the early hours of the morning still obsessing over the treasure. When both boys drifted off to sleep, the device vibrated nervously then shut off unexpectedly. When they awoke the next morning it was gone and though searched high and low for it they never did find it. Eventually both boys forgot about it, busied by their lives and the lives of their counterparts. The device became nothing but a far distant memory to both of them.

_**2012**_

The old man, Bill, had just finished telling me about the Strike when I heard my phone vibrate nervously. I glanced at the time, it was almost closing time for the little museum and I had been listening to the old man all day.

I thanked him for his story as I turned to leave, "Could I have a picture with you sir? I asked. He nodded in approval as I snapped a picture of the two of us.

As I viewed the photo, something odd caught my eye. My picture count was ridiculously high for being locked all day: 56/56. I knew I had taken a lot of pictures that day but this number showed me all the photos I had "apparently" taken since I had last locked my phone. I slid my finger over to view the other mysterious pictures. There were two boys smug as could be, dressed in attire not like anything we had nowadays. The clothes were old maybe early 1900s. I studied several other images before I realized who one of the boys was or at least who he looked like. Racetrack Higgins, the old man's grandfather. I returned to the old man who was shutting off his 'OPEN' sign.

"Ok, funny thing, Bill, you may not believe this and honestly I am completely in shock but I think your grandad's picture is on my phone." I asked still in utter astonishment. The man, in total disbelief, frowned at me but approached me as I showed him the picture.

"Holy cow! How did you get that on there? That looks just like Grandpa Anthony. That's incredible!"

"I have no idea how these ended up on my phone! Who is that boy with him?" I asked as Bill took a closer look.

"Well I'll be! That right is Spot Conlon, himself; a good friend of my grandfather he was. My grandfather could tell you a string of stories about him that could last days. He was the proclaimed leader of the Brooklyn newsies; his every wish was their command. He became Brooklyn's commander when he was 13 and remained at the helm until he was 18."

My fascination with this bit of information had become quite evident due to the stunned look on my face. "What happened to him then?" Bill spoke slowly as he continued from interruption, "He fell in love when he was 16, impregnated his love, one Danielle Bennet, and moved away from Brooklyn to New Jersey."

"You say his woman's name was Danielle Bennet," I asked as he nodded in turn. "It is interesting that she shares the name my great grandmother was christened, "What a coincidence?"

"The child's name was Abigail." He responded. I froze. "My grandmother was named Abigail, she married my grandfather Ben Morgan."

"Abigail Bennet married a Morgan, I believe." His words rocked me. It had become evident that I was of the direct line as Spot Conlon. The more we talked, the more I became convinced of this truth. As I flicked through the videos, I discovered a video of Spot and Race talking about the Strike, as well as another video of them introducing themselves. The whole event was so surreal, I couldn't believe how chance this entire day had become.

Two weeks later, I sat in my new apartment in Brooklyn, a block from the museum, and in the same complex as ol' Bill. The more we spoke that day, the more he had convinced me to move to New York, the place of my heritage. I couldn't say no. Now I sat at my small kitchen island, typing my history paper. I had watched the video of Spot and Race over and over, I had come to learn more about the Strike then I had ever learned about the Civil War. The last words of my paper:

_The story of the newsie strike of 1899 was inspired by my great-grandfather, Spot Conlon, come to my attention via a little adventure my iPhone took one day. A journey you will never believe and one which I have only now come to begin believing. _


End file.
